Battle for Berlin
by Electricfox
Summary: Based on a scenario in a Cold War mod I recently downloaded for Civ III. The story of a British tank crew heading for Berlin. Please RR. Thanks :
1. Into the Bears Cave

**Chapter One: Into the Bear Cave**

The briefing was just starting when Major Reynolds ducked under the tent flap, walking in out of the mist like drizzle and chill autumn air outside. Inside the medium sized tent were the rest of the 30th Armoured Corp's tank commanders, and infantry division leaders too. At the commanding end of the room, a General looked up from a map on his desk.

"Ah...glad to see you could join us Major, We thought you might be having a lie-in."

There was a murmur of laughter at this comment, and as Reynolds sat down towards the back, he saw the General flip over the cover page of the flipchart.

"Ok, gents, this is Berlin. The Reds own it at the moment, and we want it back."

A hand went up near the front of the room; it was a Major Davis from the infantry division.

"I don't think the Reds will want us to have it back, sir."

Another murmur of laughter, and even the General, whose name Reynolds had just remembered, was General Turner.

"What Ivan wants isn't my concern...the NATO council has just voted to support our colleagues in the Middle East against Soviet aggression...and you know what that means."

World War Four.

Three had taken place five years ago, when a British spy mission in Moscow had gone horrendously wrong, prompting Josef Stalin to declare war on Britain...who was joined by the rest of NATO, and thus the world slipped rapidly into war...the ground war in Germany was limited mainly to skirmishes between West German Leopard tanks and Soviet T-42s, with neither side claiming any major strategic advantages, in an attempt to end the stalemate, a medium range nuclear missile was launched at Berlin, but although the destruction was severe, there were not enough British units in place to take advantage of the sudden weakness in Soviet defence, and the West German units were too tied up with fighting along the Rhine...however, the destruction caused by the strike made the Soviets reconsider the progress of the war, and eventually in 1953, a peace treaty was signed between NATO and the Warsaw Pact.

A peace treaty which now seemed as worthless as the nuclear attack on Berlin.

"Ok...now that I've let that sink in, here's how we're going to go about it...45th and 50th corps will lead the first assault, beginning at oh-seven-fifty on Wednesday the twentieth, that's two days from now. Once they have breached the perimeter defence, the 30th will lead a spearhead into the central area, capturing Tempelhof airport. That is your primary goal. Once you are safely in, 45th and 50th corps will push forward and gain control of the important government buildings...but that doesn't matter, your goal in Tempelhof airport. As soon as that airport is operational, we can begin airlifting in supplies and reinforcements."

"We expect as many as four battalions of Soviet armour in the area...the West Germans are going to attempt an assault on the Rhine border tomorrow in order to draw their attention, and hopefully their troops, away from Berlin. The RAF, weather permitting, will be on hand to deal with any artillery positions we find. By this time next week, we'll be sitting in the Reichstag drinking a fine Drambuie. Be ready to move out at Eighteen hundred, we've got a few miles to cover before nightfall...we'll be heading Zero-Nine-Zero until it gets properly dark...then switch course for Berlin...by the time Ivan realises where we're really going...he should have hopefully fallen for the WG's bait. That is all, dismissed."

They all stood up and walked back out into the drizzle, Major Reynolds rubbing the stubble on his chin before scratching his scalp, mussing his unruly black hair, that not even army hairdressing had been able to tame, save for total shaving. His weapon of choice sat under a camouflage tent near the edge of the forest clearing, its gun poking out from the shadows, and sitting beside her was his crew. His gunner, his driver, and his loader, as the commander of their tank, he was responsible for their safety, and for their lives and he wouldn't be lying if he said that he consider them as close as family to him.

"W'as up Cap?" asked Charlie Baker, a South Londoner with an accent that stuck to him like glue, no matter how many times he was ribbed about it...but still, Reynolds was sure that few men could drive a Centurion like he could.

"It's a big one." replied Reynolds as he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, and sheltering under the camo-tent, sparking up his lighter before taking a deep pull, the nicotine soothed his nerves but still made him feel sick.

"Ivan?" asked John Adnams, a East Anglian man, apparently related to the owner of several breweries on the Suffolk coast, he could be a little slow at times...but his brute muscle could shove a sabot into the barrel at a speed that Reynolds knew that he certainly couldn't match...and he did his best to work out every day, despite his reputation in the platoon as somewhat of a slacker. Reynolds nodded, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and breathing out a small cloud of smoke which drifted away in the gentle breeze.

"Berlin."

"Shit." replied Adnams, his face turning into a mask of shock.

"When do we head out?" came the question from the last member of his team, Fred Westcot, a quiet Yorkshire man with a knack for accurate ranges. He had performed well on the range...but this would be his first time in action...the rest of his team had seen action in the lower ranks during the Third World War...in fact Adnams still had the scars on his arm when a sabot blew up in the barrel of the tank he had been working in, an older mark one Centurion.

But the menacing hulk of machinery which sat behind them, staring out into the rain, was the improved mark three Centurion main battle tank, improved in engine power and shell weight, it also included a fully cast turret which was said to help prevent stress fractures in welded joins under enemy fire. Reynolds knew that such things meant nothing on the battlefield, as fate had a cruel way of defying the laws written by men, but it was still reassuring to ride into battle on a tank that he knew represented the forefront of British armour at this time.

"Eighteen hundred...we'll feint towards the Rhine...then when Russkie recon time is over, we'll steer north for Berlin."

They nodded, it made tactical sense, no point in displaying clearly to the enemy exactly where you are going, especially when it was almost a two day trip to get their...they knew that the first night would mask their track...but come the daytime, it was highly likely a passing recon plane would spot them...if the weather didn't stay as crap as it was.

That was the trouble with airpower, it was never there when you needed it, and always there when you didn't.

"I suggest you stock yourselves up with supplies, and we get Clemmie ready."

"Yes sir."

As the team dispersed to prepare themselves and their chariot, Reynolds gently patted the side of the Centurion tank and smiled at the small hand stencilled words on the barrel.

Clementine.

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As Reynolds prepared himself and his men for the upcoming storm, on the other side of the Iron Curtain, another man was watching the weather anxiously, but for different reasons, Alexi Ivanov wanted clear skies...he wanted enough good weather for the dozen reconnaissance flights he had planned in the dossier which was tucked under his arm...but the reports from the weather centre were not looking promising.

"Five more days? Five more days comrade and NATO could be in Berlin!" he hissed, throwing the weather report on the desk in front of him, little knowing the prophecy his words had made, the representative from the weather centre made clicking noises with his tongue and shook his head.

"Comrade Major, I cannot control the weather, I only second guess its next move."

Alexi sighed and shook his head.

"Even the weather is working for NATO." he muttered, before nodding curtly at the representative and leaving the room, striding at a quick pace back to the front door and the ZIL limo waiting for him. As he sat down in the back seat he gave a simple command to his driver.

"Kremlin."

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Dusk was beginning to fall over 30th corps, they had already seen 45 and 50th corps drive past, and now they were beginning to form up for their drive east. Clementine was fifth in the line, her AEC Leyland engine revving gently as Baker worked to clear out any blockages or potential gremlins in the engine. Reynolds keyed his microphone and shouted into it to be heard over the engine.

"Ok Charlie, that'll do...this, is West Germany, not Snetterton!"

The revving died down back to a quiet rumble as the engine ticked over, Charlie tapping his foot impatiently as he watched the Centurion in front of them through the view slit, his narrow outlook on the world which he wanted to train himself to be familiar with, so instead of opening the hatch above him and sticking his head out through that, as he would normally do, he forced himself to work 'combat mode' through the view slit.

His left hand sat on the gear stick, Clementine was one of the few mark threes not to have semi-automatic drive...a fact that Charlie positively loathed as it made his live a little harder, but Reynolds liked because it gave them extra control over the tank, and in the combat zone, retaining control meant life or death.

At Eighteen hundred precisely, the tank in front of Charlie produced a cloud of grey smoke and began to move forward, slowly gathering speed. Charlie pushed the gear stick into first and slowly engaged the clutch, when it met the biting point, Clementine gave a small lurch and began rolling forward, her tracks squeaking as they rolled over the road, a road probably travelled, Reynolds knew, by German Panzerkampfwagons during World War Two...and here he was, just over ten years later...doing the same thing...but for a different cause.

"Got to work a little on that clutch." crackled Reynolds voice over the mike, making Charlie wince, he had been hoping that the Major had missed the lurch forward caused by his slightly too rapid release of the clutch, thankfully though he hadn't scrunched the gears, as he had known some tank drivers to do.

Rolling forward at a sedate...but maximum speed of 20 mph, Charlie allowed himself to open the hatch and poke his head through, just to take a quick look around at his surroundings. The drizzle got into his eyes until he looked down at the road, out of the corner of his eye he could see the pine trees slowly passing by, knowing full well, that even in this relatively safe part of West Germany, those pine trees could hold a Soviet RPG launcher...which if fired at the right portion of his tank, could turn him into a charred corpse...despite the fact he had a hatch above him, the split seconds between a hull breach and ammo explosion wouldn't be enough for him to escape...if anything the hatch was more for getting into the tank rather than getting out.

Up on top of the turret, Reynolds was looking around at the same pine trees Charlie had cast such a critical eye at, with a pair of binoculars strung around his neck, he knew that the best defence was forewarning, forewarned was forearmed after all...and he was pretty sure that any roadside ambushes would be made on 45th and 50th corps rather than on 30th, but he was still not willing to take any chances, and judging by the amount of tank commanders who had their upper half's looking through the turret hatch, some of them gripping the Browning co-axial with white knuckles. Seeing this, Reynolds fought to keep his calm, he too was worried at the mission ahead...but he was professional enough not to show it as obviously as some might.

Reynolds smiled and keyed in his mike for a broadcast to all his crewmembers.

"Good evening tankers, this is your Major speaking and we'd like to welcome you on board Flight 30 to Berlin...please remember to follow to safety instructions written in the user guide...and shoot any commie you see on the way."

He could just about hear the laughter above the rattling of the tank, the squeaking of the tracks and the rumbling of the engine.

30th Corps was on its way to join 45th and 50th, with Clementine and her crew ready for battle.

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"Comrade Ivanov, It is good to see you." General Valentin nodded, as Ivanov walked into the reception area of the Kremlin. Ivanov saluted and smiled.

"As it is you, Comrade General. Am I late?"

Valentin shook his head.

"No comrade, the meeting is just about to begin...you know the route."

Major Ivanov saluted and marched briskly towards the situation room, the folder under his arm...it wasn't hard to miss the door to the situation room, it had two AK47 wielding guards outside it who stopped him as he approached, he held up his Kremlin pass and was granted admittance. Inside sat the CinC West, the operational commander of the Western front, Colonel General Sergei Beria who was engrossed in reading a report on his desk. On his left sat Major General Chicherin, the head of Soviet Ground Forces and on his right sat Major General Gurevich, the head of the Soviet Air Force. There was a small lectern at the other end of the table and a projector which faced a white board behind the lectern. Ivanov placed a transparency on the projector and switched it on, a grainy black and white photograph of a column of tanks appeared on the white board, closely followed by Ivanovs shadow as he stood behind the lectern, trying not to blind himself with the light from the projector...but at least it made the high ranking officers in the room less visible, and calmed Ivanovs nerves considerably.

"At Twenty Forty Seven, Moscow time, our units on the West German border engaged their forces, scoring several small victories...behind me is a reconnaissance photograph taken by our recon flight behind WG lines, it showed three divisions of British armour, mainly Centurion type, heading for the front lines. At the moment, I am assured that our armoured forces can take care of West German units...but, with the addition of British forces, they may encounter difficulties."

"Nonsense, Alexi, the British Centurions may be powerful...but they are not invincible. Our units will be fine." said Chicherin with a confident smile.

"Nevertheless Comrade Major General, would it not be prudent to at least slightly bolster our lines?" said Ivanov, gesturing towards the map on the wall to his left.

"Comrade Alexi speaks some truth," said Beria, his greying beard framing his mouth as his old and wizened voice silenced the protest that Chicherin was about to make. "After all, it is best not to gamble on perfect performance...the hand of fate does not always deal a fair hand to us...and if the weather should clear up, the NATO air force will return...and our fortune may not be so favourable."

Wise as he was, Beria often spoke in riddles and the room fell into a brief silence as the men in the room worked out what had been said.

"So...Comrade Colonel General, where should we pull these forces from?" asked Chicherin slowly.

"There's always Berlin. NATO would be suicidal to try and attack there." said Gurevich.

There was another pause as the great minds in the room thought the plan through.

"It is indeed a plan...however, it would not be wise to give NATO any ideas...for them to capture back Germany's former capital would be a major propaganda victory. I do not think it would be worth the gamble." said Beria, shaking his head slowly.

"What about the Chinese border?" asked Alexi, sticking his neck out slightly, praying that it would not be chopped off.

"Comrade Ivanov does have a point...the Chinese have allied with us against NATO, it would be pointless...and expensive, to keep too many of our forces there, when they could be deployed to protest our Western border." agreed Gurevich

"They would need a weeks work-up prior to deployment, after all...they have not seen full combat for some time." said Chicherin, nodding slowly.

"Do you mean to say they are out of shape?" asked Beria, stroking his beard.

"Not at all Comrade Colonel General...just that they have never fought NATO before, they will need some adjustment time."

"You have two days Comrade Chicherin, two days only...should they need more time...they would be better off under the command of a superior officer."

"Da Comrade Colonel General."

"Very good...so, the forces in Berlin stay..."

"Da."

"Thank you very much for your briefing Comrade Ivanov...you should get some sleep."

Alexi looked down at his uniform, noticing for the first time how scruffy it looked...he was surprised that he had even gotten into the meeting dressed like this.

"Da, thank you, sirs."

Alexi saluted, and then collecting his papers, he walked out of the room and headed back to the reception, where he signed out, bidding a goodbye to Valentin as he left back into his ZIL, heading back to his apartment.

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The rain had stopped, and the cloud cover had cleared slightly, forcing 30th corp. to switch their headlights off, preventing any passing aircraft from seeing them, although Reynolds wasn't so sure it would prevent any spies in the area from noticing their ninety degree change of course. He sat back in his commander's chair, looking through the view ports at the road, and tanks, ahead...barely visible in the gloom. The forests had disappeared, replaced by rolling hills and copses, and Reynolds felt incredibly exposed. The feeling of nakedness had not been helped by the almost constant flashes on the eastern horizon, not flashes of lightning but flashes of gunfire.

He chewed despondently on his MRE chocolate bar, having finished the plastic tasting sandwich; he couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to go wrong. He looked down at Adnams who was dozing on the gun loader, his head rocking violently with the motion of the tank; Reynolds shot a look at Westcot who shrugged. Reynolds still found it amazing that anyone could sleep in a moving tank...but he let Adnams sleep for the moment, he needed his loader to be full rested when battle came. Checking his watch he saw it was two o'clock in the morning local time, which would put it at about midnight back home. He wondered what the news agencies were making of it all, what the BBC would be broadcasting on its World Service…he wished that he could tune into it…but he needed the radio for any broadcasts on the group frequency.

There was a particularly bright flash on the horizon which made Reynolds flinch, he couldn't help but feel sorry for those who were undoubtedly suffering from a severe Soviet artillery barrage…but there was nothing they could do to help…they had their orders, as did the West Germans. The Yanks would get involved some time soon no doubt, and then the pressure on Europe would be slightly alleviated…he hoped.

"Sir?" came the voice over the tank mike, Reynolds keyed his mike.

"What is it Fred?" he asked.

"How did this Cold war start?"

Reynolds rubbed his chin and rested his feet on a protruding piece of metal, hopefully nothing too sensitive he hoped…but then again, anything too sensitive in a tank would be shaken to pieces within minutes. He shifted in his seat slightly, trying to shift the numbness in his posterior.

"Well…our comrade Stalin decided that the whole world should be red. After Hitler attacked Russia and got repelled, Stalin marched west, taking Poland and all the Eastern European states the Reds have now…he met us in Berlin…for some time Berlin was split in two…but in the last war the Reds took it completely…despite us nuking it."

"So…one mans greed."

"Set the world into war…yeah…"

"Typical."

Reynolds couldn't argue with his gunner…he just hoped that it was Fourth time lucky…and the world would come to its senses and see that killing each other over a hunk of mud wasn't worth it.

Something landed on the window of the commanders view panel, then another, then another.

"Looks like rain again." Muttered Reynolds.

"Sunrise in 4 hours," said Charlie "Let's hope it stays that way."

"Yeah." Agreed Reynolds, they needed all the luck they could get their hands on.

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The sun rose over a smoke filled sky above Berlin, a city that had always been part of the front lines, a city that had seen bombs from Russia and from the west. Whose inhabitants were used to the air raids and KGB. A ghost city, empty streets and boarded up shops but here and there, signs of life among the decay, children playing in the rubble of a ruined house, an elderly man sitting in a chair at one of the few cafes still doing business, and the occasional squad of Soviet infantry marching through the streets.

Through these skies, flew a single twin engined Canberra bomber, its RAF roundels glinting on the metal wings, this bomber carried no weapons except for an array of cameras focused on the ground. Its crew of three, pilot, navigator and second navigator, the second navigator would normally have control over the bombs...but in this case, he controlled the cameras.

The pair of Rolls Royce Avon 101 jet engines made little noise in the cockpit as it cruised at 350mph, and when the pilot, James Branworth coughed, it made the navigator Roger Bradwell jump out of his seat.

"Christ, James, you really should get some lozenges!" he said through the microphone.

"I think I will when we get back, must be some stupid cold going 'round." he replied, shaking his head.

"Good idea...ok, we are at five minutes. Got those cameras ready Jason?"

Jason Ashwell lay down next to the cameras and switched them from neutral to active...then placed his finger next to the trigger switch.

"Looks like Ivan's asleep this morning," said James "No AA activity at all."

"Don't curse us!" warned Roger as he pencilled in their course.

James Branworth made a slight altitude alteration and tilted the wings slightly to move them back on course, the winds at altitude were a constant nuisance. James hoped that it wouldn't have too much of an impact of fuel consumption, the last thing he wanted was to get stuck with an empty tank over Soviet territory...he'd heard some terrible tales about their treatment of prisoners, and he didn't want to find out if they were real.

"Target in one minute, film ready?"

"Roger that."

The Canberra swooped over Berlin, approaching along approximately the same course the forthcoming invasion would take, trying to maintain a high altitude to cover a wider area with its cameras.

"Commence filming."

"Commencing filming!"

Jason flicked the trigger switch and heard the camera shutters begin clicking, taking high resolution photographs at many rates a minute. After viewing some of the pictures taken by the cameras onboard the Canberra, Jason had never been able to use a commercial camera the same way again, he had been permanently convinced the quality was low. In fact he was determined to try and weasel some of the film out of the RAF and use it in his camera on the quiet...developing the films himself as he knew commercial developers wouldn't know what to make of it.

He looked down at the streets as they passed, noting the rectangular bulks of tanks, parked at strategic intersections, and artillery positions semi-concealed on top of slopes.

"I thought Ivan was supposed to have pulled out most of his tanks?" said Jason.

"He has." replied James, who couldn't see what Jason could because the nose of the aircraft and the direction he faced obscured his view of anything below him.

"Well...unless these tanks are bloody good fakes, there's still at least four battalions down there."

"Shit."

"We'd better get these pictures back to command...and fast!"

James pulled the Canberra around in a tight arc and set his speed up to high, streaking out of the skies above Berlin, heading west back to Britain and home. He was so intent on coaxing the most out of his engines that he didn't notice the small splotch on his radar screen, not until an electronic bleep warned him that something was out there.

"What the?"

The splotch split into two, the smallest splotch heading rapidly towards the centre of the round screen. James stared in horror and pulled back quickly on the control yoke, almost stalling the engines.

"SHIT! Hold tight everyone!"

The missile struck just left of the port engine, blowing it and a large section of the port wing off in a cloud of shrapnel, as the Canberra was in a climb it suddenly developed into a spin, which James could not control. A second bleep warned of another incoming...and there was nothing he could do.

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"Da, target destroyed." reported the MiG-21 pilot as the RAF recon plane fell apart in a large fireball, the debris falling down to the former German countryside below.

"Good work Spade-1, return to base."

"Da, returning to base." he turned his brand new plane, which when he had his oxygen mask off still smelt of new metal and plastic, around and headed back to the airfield at Tegel.

His report was filed within half an hour...and within the hour was heading for Moscow.

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Ivanov frowned at the report just handed to him, forwarded on by Major General Gurevich. It told of one of their new MiG-21s shooting down a photo recon plane as it fled the airspace over Berlin.

It was unusual for a photo-recon plane to appear over Berlin and Ivanov had a horrible feeling in his stomach that he knew why it was there. He opened the door of his office and shouted out at the secretary outside.

"Get me Comrade Ortoff on the line!"

He walked back into the office and sat down behind his desk, a few moments later the telephone rang, he picked it up.

"Da, Ortoff speaking."

"Comrade Ortoff, its Major Ivanov here. I need you to schedule a recon flight for the area within a..." he peered over at his map of Germany. "100 kilometres, south of Berlin...look for any signs of armoured movement."

"Expecting an attack Comrade Major?"

"I hope not Sergei."

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A couple of hours later, a modified Tupolev TU-95M 'Bear' rolled down the runway at Engels air base, near Moscow. It took it several hours to get into position, but it made it unharrassed, unlike the RAF Canberra beforehand. By the time it returned to Moscow, it was nearing evening, and the light was beginning to fail. The photos made it back to Major Ivanov at seventeen twenty Moscow time.

"Damn...just what I was afraid of." he put the photos into a folder which he tied up securely with string. Then he threw on his overcoat, and asked his secretary to call his car and then the Kremlin.

In twenty minutes he was in a meeting with Major General Chicherin and Colonel General Beria. There was no lectern, the meeting had been hastily called and Ivanov was probably less bothered about his appearance than before, he put a copy of the photos in front of both men and then sat at the opposite end of the table to Beria.

There was a long silence as both men looked through the grainy black and white pictures. Chicherin spoke first.

"So...the British move towards the western front was a feint."

"Da Comrade Major General."

"When are they expected to reach Berlin?" asked Beria, he reached into his pocket for a cigar, imported especially from Cuba who were growing more and more friendly with the Soviet Union by the day.

"If they continue at their current speed...probably early tomorrow morning."

"That doesn't give us much time to organise an effective defence." said Beria as he lit his cigar.

"Our units in Berlin outnumber them...they will be buried, it's as simple as that." replied Chicherin, dropping one of the photos onto the pile in front of him dismissively.

Beria took a long drag on his cigar and breathed out the smoke.

"Never underestimate NATO..." he warned.

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They had stopped briefly to top up on fuel but then were on the road again, passing by villages which existed only as darkened houses, no lights of any kind shone in the night sky, as Reynolds sat on top of the turret, trying to work some feeling back into his legs which along with his arse had gone numb during the trip. They had crossed the border less than an hour ago, and would reach the outskirts of Berlin early the next morning. There had been reports of a Soviet aircraft in the area, 45th corp. had reported that it looked like one of their 'Bears' which could only mean trouble. Reynolds knew that some 'Bears' had been modified for reconnaissance purposes, and since it was operating on its own, this 'Bear' looked like it was one of them.

So the jig was up, Ivan knew they were coming and he had half a day's head start...but had he already committed to his Western front? Reynolds wasn't so sure, and neither it seemed was High Command, they had sent a recon plane to Berlin to investigate but it had failed to return. They were planning another flight at daybreak...but by then it would probably be too late.

The flashes on the horizon were still there, but slightly less intensive, as they left the battlefield behind...but just because the active fighting was behind them, it didn't mean that the enemy wasn't still in sight...50th corps had reported engaging a small APC a few miles back, but they had heard nothing more, and this far behind the main thrust, Reynolds didn't expect to hear much.

"How's she doing?" he asked Charlie as he ducked back inside the tank and plugged his mike back in.

"Holding well, sir. Fuel and oil check out fine..."

"Good work."

Adnams had begun to fall asleep on the gun again but Westcot kicked him in the ribs as he dozed off.

"Wake up yer lazy bugger...Ivan be over hill and las thing we need is you asleep on t' job!"

Adnams had shot him a look and then yawned before forcing himself to try and stay awake. Reynolds couldn't blame them; he had dozed off for a couple of hours before they crossed the border. It was safe back there, it wasn't here.

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"So...the British are on their way..."

"Da, so it seems Comrade Colonel," replied Captain Pasha Grigori, as he rolled out the heavily altered map of Berlin, forcibly changed during the last war, many of the streets were now choked with rubble, even after this length of time...it seemed no-one was really bothered with Berlin any more, no-one outside of the Soviet military anyway.

The tent stank of cigar smoke and caffeine, two vital components of the decision making machine, Colonel Bukharin had summoned his senior officers as soon as word had come through of the change in the British advance, and they had spent most of the night going over defence troop deployments, and now it had been confirmed that there were two, maybe three armoured divisions moving northward. Since most Soviet units outside of the city had been diverted to meet the West German offensive, scant forces stood in the way of their advance...but Bukharin had vowed that no British tank would churn its trends on Berlin soil.

"I want every choke point mined on the main south road...Petrov!"

"Da Colonel?"

"Get your men to demolish buildings...here...here and here..." said Bukharin, stabbing the map with his pencil, the point breaking on the last stab, he threw it to one side and almost immediately an aide placed another on the table which Bukharin picked up and placed in his mouth, chewing at the end distractedly.

"We need to funnel them into a kill zone...I doubt they will have brought clearing crews with them...and their Centurions cannot cross every form of terrain...does anyone know their destination?"

"It is quite possible they will attempt to gain control of Tempelhof and Schonefeld airports...from there they would be able to ship more supplies in." said Grigori slowly as he tapped the relevant point on the map.

"Da...Tegel is too far north for a swift assault. It's likely they will come through Konigs Wusterhsn and swing north through Schonefeld and Mariendorf...which means we need to stop them before Schonefeld...or at least deny them use of that facility."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking Comrade Colonel?" asked Petrov.

"Indeed...get your men on it...I want that airport unusable within three hours!"

Bukharin stood up straight for a moment and looked at the map from a new angle as Petrov ran to the radios.

"Now...Grigori...we will try to funnel them down this gap between Britz and Mariendorf...this is where we'll need you...set your men up as you see fit...but they must not get past you! I don't care how many losses you take, you must hold the line!"

Grigori nodded but stifled a gulp, he had heard the hidden undertone in Bukharin's voice, and knew that a heavy burden was on his shoulders now, failure was not an option.

"You!" Bukharin pointed at a passing aide "Fetch us several pints of coffee!" he then turned and looked at Grigori.

"What are you still doing here! Get moving!"

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"I have a horrible feeling about this Matthew, I really do...I cannot help but think we have sent these men into a modern version of Arnhem."

Field Marshall Keable sat back and nodded at his colleague who took another sip of his tea.

"It is very unfortunate that our reconnaissance flight was shot down...but we do have another ready to go within the hour...weather conditions are less than wonderful but they will suffice for a head count."

Admiral of the Fleet James Currie stroked his moustache and nodded, it was rare that the two staff officers met each other, their respective duties taking up most of their time...but since the fourth world war had broken out, they had called the meeting to collaborate their intelligence, and shortly they were due to be joined by Marshal of the RAF Steven Harding.

"Do you think Ivan fell for the bait?"

Keable leant forward to help himself to a biscuit.

"My counterpart in the West German army assures me that they have met with fierce resistance on all of their advances...they won't be able to hold them for long...but hopefully long enough."

"That's an awfully big gamble..."

"But think of what we'll gain...the West Germans have never forgiven us for using nuclear weapons on Berlin in the last war, now...if we can just get the city without major casualties then we'll have scored a major propaganda victory." replied Keable as he dipped his biscuit in his tea and eat a piece of it.

There was a pause as the pair considered his words, and then Matthew leant forward again, placing his tea cup and saucer on the desk.

"Any word on the Americans?" he asked

James nodded.

"Yes...there's a Carrier group bound for the Barents to prevent a breakout there, we have the Ark Royal on standby off the north German coast, just in case they come the other way. They have a couple of Fast Attacks; they're setting out from Faslane tonight along with two of our Oberon's...just to keep Ivan on his toes."

"Do you expect much naval activity?"

James shook his head and then brushed some crumbs off his uniform.

"No...not really...nothing much happened in the last war, and we haven't received any intelligence to suggest that the Soviet Union has majorly changed it's rather lacking approach to naval affairs...a couple of Romeos, maybe a November out of Murmansk...nothing we can't handle...no, I think the main focus of this war is going to fall on you and Steven..."

Matthew nodded, taking another sip of his tea.

"Yes, I think you're right..."

At that point, just as the clock struck three in the morning, Steven Harding arrived and sat down next to James, a cup of coffee was poured for him and the meeting began in earnest.

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Senior Aircraftman Michael Jennings walked around the outside of the modified Canberra and reflected on the loss of James Branworth and his crew only the day before, recon missions were always fraught with danger, especially if the enemy knew you were coming...which Michael was almost positive that they did. To that end he had been up most of the night working on a plan, it was dangerous but no more so than streaking into Soviet airspace unprotected. All the reports he had read on Soviet radar technology seemed to indicate there might be a gap under one hundred and fifty feet where it didn't reach. Now if he could cruise at maximum possible speed and at one hundred feet or below, then he could pop up over Berlin, take his shots and then get the hell out of there before the Soviets realised what was going on.

He had been promised that an anti-tank air strike was scheduled to take place on the West German front lines at approximately the same time as his mission so with any luck any fighter aircraft in the area would be distracted.

Nearby, in a forest at the edge of RAF Woodbridge, a bird chirruped...signalling the beginning of the dawn chorus, already the eastern sky was beginning to get light. He turned and began to walk back to the mess hut, to gather his crew and his thoughts.

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"APC ten o clock, range five hundred!"

"Sabot up!"

"Shoot!"

The tank lurched slightly as the 105mm main gun discharged the Sabot round which streaked across to the Soviet BTR-153 open top Armoured Personnel Carrier and hit just next to the drivers compartment. Judging by the way the APC jumped and drove off the road and into a tree, Reynolds judged the driver to be incapacitated, which left the rest of the soldiers who had bailed out of the APC. Some of them were had been clearly affected by the sabot as they were writhing on the ground in agony...others however were raising anti-tank weaponry.

A clatter of machine gun fire sent them sprawling as the Centurion behind mopped up the remainders.

"What was that...the fifth since daylight. Ivan must love his APCs." said Westcot as he fiddled with the dials for the rangefinder.

"45 and 50 reported engaging a few T-50s up ahead..." warned Charlie from down in the drivers position.

Reynolds nodded to himself and looked across at Westcot.

"With any luck Ivan's sending them out in front of Berlin rather than risk a street by street defence."

He then turned to Adnams who was checking the loading equipment.

"How's our ammo?"

He got a thumbs up and a nod in reply.

"Still enough to make Ivan cry."

Reynolds smiled and looked at his map, if his reckoning was right and the radio reports were accurate, 45th and 50th corps were now beginning the main assault on Berlin.

Their turn would come in less than three hours.


	2. Critical Period

**Chapter Two: Critical Period**

The squeak and rattle of tank tracks filled the street, echoing off the deserted buildings, making it sound like the invaders were around the next corner, when in fact...thanks to their covert radio network, Pasha Grigori knew that they were in fact two streets away. This still didn't give them much time.

"Engage at short range, then switch positions...never stay in one place after firing!" he warned his men.

Less than fifteen minutes ago a platoon of T-54s had rumbled past, a couple of them sporting battle-scars as they retreated to their defence position. Pasha knew that once the jig was up at this ambush point then it was a flat out run back to join them.

Grigori gripped the handle of his RPG-5 a little tighter, crouching in a depression at the side of the road. A tactic they had learnt from the third world war. They would engage from a position below the tanks main gun elevation, thus preventing counter fire. However this tactic did nothing for the coaxial machine guns, so Pasha knew he would have to run like hell before the tank could track in on him. Especially since his RPG fire would leave a nice white smoke trail back to his position.

The front of a tank appeared around the bend in the street, this was the moment they had been waiting for. Three Centurions, no doubt probing ahead of the main advance, no gunners were visible on top of the tank, probably just as well for the British as the many snipers they had littering Berlin would have no doubt have put an end to any tank commanders attempt to use the top mounted machinegun.

"Hold your fire men...remember, each group pick your tank."

Pasha didn't doubt the weapons would find their targets, but had assigned three men per tank to give their rounds an extra emphasis. After all, they wanted to disable the British tanks, not scratch their paintwork.

As the tanks loomed ever closer, Pasha fought the urge to break cover and run, knowing that he'd be gunned down within seconds, instead he hunkered down a little more behind the pile of rubble that used to be a dentists shop. The rubble spread out, covering the street...not enough to prevent the Centurions from advancing...but hopefully enough to slow them down slightly.

He leaned a little closer in his target sight and aimed his RPG at the top of the lead tanks turret. The ground was rumbling underneath his body as the powerful Rolls Royce engines pushed the fifty-eight ton metal monster slowly towards them. Finally, as the lead tank passed the marker Pasha had selected whilst preparing their position, a broken lamp post just opposite, he gently squeezed the gun-like trigger on his launcher. There was a sudden burst of heat behind him, but not enough to injure him, and with a shriek the missile leapt out of its tube and struck the tank bang on target.

All the tanks ground to a halt, and the turret began to turn, seeking the source of the missile which had clearly done slight damage to the top of the vehicle. Pasha didn't wait to see what happened next, he broke cover and ran as he heard a cacophony of shrieks as the rest of his team launched their missiles. There was a loud bang and an awful screech of tearing metal as something exploded behind him. As he dived behind a ruined car and turned to look he saw that the lead tank was now turret less and heavily on fire...to his horror he could hear something above the sound of machine gun fire, he could hear screaming. He looked over at the burning tank and saw something lying beside it also on fire, trying to crawl away but after an agonised minute the screaming stopped and the figure lay still.

"Report!" he yelled into his radio as he saw another soldier running for cover, machine gun fire clattering over the ruins around him.

"Two tanks destroyed, the third is damaged but still operational."

Pasha nodded, he had expected as much. Still, it was enough to make the British a little more cautious...enough to buy them time to get their defence ready.

"The third tank is withdrawing...shall we pursue?"

"Negative, retreat to the pre-planned position."

Hefting his RPG launcher over his shoulder, Pasha began to jog across the ruins, taking care not to step on some loose rubble and cause himself some physical damage. The last thing he needed was to break his leg or something, especially right now.

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The treetops flew past at an impossible speed, scant feet below them as the Canberra screamed along at 400 knots, just 70 knots below its maximum speed. A thin bead of sweat ran down the side of Michael Jennings's head as he concentrated hard on keeping the aircraft level and below one hundred and fifty feet, praying all the time that he wouldn't suddenly get a warning of a heavy radar lock. It was possible word had got out of their arrival, doubtless the Soviets had observer posts in the German countryside...but Jennings wasn't hanging around, he hoped to get the photos they wanted and then get out again before any Soviet fighters arrived. To that end, he had turned the radar off, in the hope that it would decrease his chances of being detected by Soviet electronic surveillance.

"Altitude climb in one-zero minutes." reported the navigator, as Jennings depressed the rudder pedal very slightly, another sweat bead joining the first.

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"Here they come again!" warned a radio based spotter a block away.

"How many."

"Many..."

Pasha resisted the urge to throw the receiver on the floor in anger.

"Give me numbers!"

"I count twenty; I repeat two-zero, British tanks approaching."

There was a slight quaver in the spotter's voice.

"Is your position compromised?"

"Not at the moment Comrade...request permission to retreat."

Pasha thought the situation over.

"Negative, inform us the second any more tanks arrive."

He gave the radio back to his radio operator and glanced outside the door of the old hotel they were based in, fifteen T-54s were dug in at strategic points in the old park outside...and Pasha had a further ten ready to move on his orders. His tactic was a classical way to reduce the numbers of their enemy. The fifteen tanks at the park would engage the enemy as they arrived, whilst RPG crews to the rear would block any escape route...if needed the extra ten T-54s would then move in to finish off the Centurions but Pasha didn't think it would be necessary, and he hoped that he could keep them as a surprise.

There was a burst of missile fire outside, and Pasha rushed through the doorway to see what was happening. Nothing stirred outside, but up in the sky something shot past at high altitude, two anti-aircraft missiles close behind it.

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Alarms went off across the board as Michael dived the Canberra at the ground, the radar showing the two heat-seeking missiles locked firmly on his tail, however there was a lake up ahead, Michael didn't know its name and at a moment such as this it was the last priority on his mind...but he had read of a story from a Meteor pilot who had managed to fool a heat-seeker using a lake.

He pulled the nose up very slightly to put them on a collision course with the lake, the two dots on the radar screen got slightly closer as their rate of descent slowed. Although the world seemed to be going in slow motion, it felt like seconds to the moment the lake was upon them, and Michael pushed the flight yoke forward, taking them down until they were virtually touching the surface of the lake. He thought he heard a cry of alarm below him but ignored it, focusing on the tree line ahead of him...growing ever closer.

Behind the aircraft, the air left in the aircrafts wake was sucking up a small fountain of water, spraying out behind the Canberra like the spray from a motorboat, and spraying over the two missiles as they rushed along in the wake of the aircraft. Inside the missiles warhead, the infa-red sensors had become confused as suddenly the temperature around them had dropped several degrees and their target had vanished. By the time the water had cleared and the missiles were able to return to seeking a heat lock, they had ploughed into the trees at the edge of the lake and exploded.

Jennings allowed himself a small sigh of relief as the radar went blank. It had been a big gamble...but one that had paid off with dividends.

"Jesus Christ!" yelled the cameraman "I could see the fish in that lake!"

The navigator laughed, and Jennings chuckled, they were out of one danger...but not totally clear yet.

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"_T-54s! It's an ambush! My god…"_

The radio had suddenly burst into a cacophony of warnings and shouts…and screams. Reynolds could do nothing but sit back and stare out of the viewing window at the road ahead in horror. This wasn't in the briefing, Ivan wasn't supposed to have that many tanks here, they were supposed to be on the Eastern Front!

"Shit." Muttered Adnams behind him and Reynolds nodded.

"_Withdraw! Regroup and w…"_

It seemed no sooner than the voices on the radio spoke up than they were interrupted by screams or a sudden burst of static that probably indicated the death of a tank.

"_RPG groups behind us! There's no way out!"_

Reynolds could bare it no longer and switched the radio off, sitting back in horror before lashing out and punching at the side of the tank.

"Dammit!"

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The Canberra landed at RAF Woodbridge, just as the first British tanks were engaged in Berlin. The film was rushed to the railway station and taken by special train to London, where a small contingent of army officers met it at Liverpool Street station. It was taken to the headquarters of the British army and developed in a secret laboratory in the basement before being rushed upstairs to Field Marshall Keable.

"How recent are these pictures?"

"Less than four hours old."

"Get on the line to the Berlin brigade; get them out of Berlin…now!"

He threw the pictures back on the desk and almost ran out of the door, closely followed by the aide who quickly scooped the pictures up in his arms.

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Colonel Bukharin smiled as he listened to the radio reports coming in from the defence line.

"Good work Pasha," he replied "Contact me the moment anything changes."

He turned and lit another cigar, savouring the taste as he looked over the map of Berlin on the table. Then he turned and announced to the room.

"The British are withdrawing!"

There was a brief cheer but then Bukharin silenced them with a wave of his hand.

"Let's keep on our toes…it's likely they'll be back before long."

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Ivanov had been summoned to a meeting at the Kremlin at midday Moscow time, and as he looked at his watch he realised it must be about ten o clock in the morning in Berlin. The attack must have taken place by now…Ivanov just hoped that the intelligence he had given his superiors had enabled them to mount some kind of defence.

But even so…what would be the sacrifice at the Western front? Would the West German forces capitalise on the fact that they hadn't sent extra forces from Berlin? Was the British move towards Berlin actually a feint in itself to prevent the Soviet forces from reinforcing the Western front?

So many questions and despite his position as Head of Military Intelligence, he hadn't been able to authorise any flights since most runways and airbases were sending bombers to West Germany and France.

He showed his ID to the guards on duty and knocked on the door.

"Come."

He opened the left door and walked in, Major General Chicherin and Colonel General Beria were already there, naturally…in fact there were rumours in the Intelligence industry that the two never left the Kremlin. One thing surprised Ivanov though, it would seem to the trained eye, that Chicherin and Beria were smiling…someone who didn't spend as much time around the two giants as he did would have missed it but there was a very faint quirk of the lower lip.

"Comrade Ivanov, come, take a seat." Chicherin indicated the chair at the lower end of the table.

"Thank you Comrade General."

"We have good news Ivanov…the British forces attacking Berlin were routed and are retreating with their tails between their legs!"

Ivanov breathed a sigh of relief, his information had managed to stop the British from capitalising on a diversionary tactic, a small part of him hoped that some sort of reward would fall his way for this.

"We must not grow complacent though, Lieutenant Colonel…we still have the West Germans biting at our ankles like a small dog…I believe the time is right for a counter-offensive."

Ivanov paused for a moment, replaying the last sentence over in his mind, and then forced his mind to pull itself off the ceiling and get back to current affairs.

"Perhaps it would be wise to give it another three to four days…it is unlikely the British will give up on Berlin that easily, sir."

For the first time in the meeting, Beria spoke…as slowly and deliberately as ever, as though every word that left his mouth had been analysed and reanalysed for hours beforehand and could be relied upon to be perfect.

"Pavel…listen to Alexi…the man is wise beyond his rank…we cannot expect the British to just give up on Berlin, after all…as we have already discussed, the capture of Berlin would be a major propaganda victory for NATO."

"Colonel General, sir," replied Chicherin, looking at the papers in front of him, unwilling to make eye contact with Beria as he knew he'd put a foot wrong "The forces from the Chinese border will arrive within two days, I recommend focusing on our counter-offensive then."

"Da…until then, tell our forces in Berlin to keep on the lookout for another British assault."

Ivanov felt that the meeting was going on without him, but knew that he couldn't leave before he was dismissed…then something strange happened.

"Major general, you are dismissed."

"Da Comrade General!"

Chicherin rose and saluting Beria, walked out of the room, his footfalls echoed by the marble floor and walls. There was a long silence afterwards as Beria read quickly through a slip of paper on his desk.

"You are a very intelligent young man, Alexi Ivanov." He said after a while.

"Thank you Comrade General."

"Comrade Chicherin…he is a very competent man…but his age is beginning to affect his judgement…in time we will need someone to…take hold of the reins as he lets go…someone fresh but not green…someone like yourself Lieutenant Colonel…"

Ivanov's heart pounded in his chest…take over Chicherins position! But he was merely an intelligence officer!

"Sir…I…"

"You would receive all the training needed, and all the benefits of being an influential member of the Kremlin..."

Ivanov just stared at Beria, unable to reply…but he got the distinct impression that he was not actually required to say anything at the moment, in fact, the less he said the less chance he had of making a complete fool of himself. After a short silence, Beria smiled slightly again and nodded at Ivanov.

"Anyway, that is something for you to think about…Dismissed."

Ivanov stood up rapidly, almost knocking his chair over in his haste and giving a salute so crisp that it would have made his old drill instructor weep tears of joy.

"DA! Comrade General!"

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It is said that for every joyous moment in the world there must be a corresponding moment of gloom, and certainly Ivanovs elation as he left the Kremlin a rank higher than he went in, was mirrored by the sheer depression of the crew in Clementine as they sat alongside the rest of their division twenty miles from Berlin, ordered by high command to fall back as the first two divisions slaughtered themselves on the Soviet defences. A couple of badly scarred Centurions had rattled along the road towards them and now sat in a clearing in the woods behind them, their crews sitting in a debriefing.

"Looks like we got the order just in time." Said Adnams as he poured a cup of tea from a flask, and stretched his legs. After spending several long and very bumpy hours inside the cramped environment of the Centurion tank, he was glad for some legroom…just not at the reason for it.

"Some bloody mess this is." agreed Charlie as he took a puff of his rolled up cigarette.

"I bet it was all some stiff in a suit behind a desk in London that dreamt this up." Said Adnams, taking a sip of his tea.

"Most likely…but ours is not tae reason wae." Murmured Fred from where he lay next to the tank.

"…ours is but to do and die…" said Reynolds, completing the quote.

Westcott looked up at him questioningly.

"Tennyson." replied Reynolds with a nod.

"Didn't have ye down as a man of poetry, sir."

"I'm full of surprises." Said Reynolds with a grin as he pulled himself up onto the back of Clementine and sat with his legs dangling over the edge of her hull.

"What do you think is goin' to happen now?" asked Charlie.

There was a short rattle of machine gun fire, and all heads turned in the direction of the sound….but it was distant and peace soon reigned afterwards.

"I honestly don't know…" said Reynolds

"Whatever it is…I hope it's an end to this war…this madness needs to be stopped before it starts." muttered Charlie.

"Aye…we can but dream." Agreed Fred.

Reynolds looked back at the green fields and beautiful landscape, marred only by thick streamers of smoke in the distance, caused no doubt, by the burnt out hulls of tanks…iron coffins for the men that served in them.

"…dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?" he said with a sigh.

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"Damn…I should have known better…I should have known Ivan wouldn't fall for the ploy."

"Don't beat yourself up Matthew, it was a gamble and it didn't pay off."

Field Marshall Keable rubbed his face with his hands, trying to wipe away the fatigue caused by what was arguably the most stressful day of his life.

"I shouldn't have gambled like that…"

Admiral of the Fleet Currie crossed his legs and shook his head.

"War is a gamble Matthew, we take risks and sometimes they pay off…do you think Monty won the Desert War by carefully weighing up the pros and cons?"

Matthew looked up, his face unreadable.

"If I recall correctly," he said slowly "Monty was on the team behind Market Garden."

"Ah…but still, my point applies…"

James stirred the tea in his cup a little more and then placed the cup on the desk.

"To be truthful with you Matt…when I was commander of the Colossus carrier group…I took some pretty large gambles myself…and for the most part they played off…"

"For the most part?" asked Matthew

"Yes…well…I dare say you've heard about the sinking of HMS Birmingham…that was a gamble that didn't pay off…"

There was a long silence, only the sound of the clock ticking filled the still air in the room.

"So…what are you going to do now?"

"We're not a hundred percent sure…the political pressure on us to capture Berlin is immense…but we just don't have the forces in the area. So far there seems to be only one way we're going to get the remaining forces into Berlin without terrible losses…"

"Oh?" James picked up the cup and held it in his right hand.

Matthew nodded and said one word which made James drop the cup on the floor where it bounced and emptied its contents all over the dark red carpet.

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Pasha Grigori ducked under the flap and back into the command tent; he stood at the entrance and watched in amazement as, as one, the entire tent broke out into applause. Bukharin rumbled through the small crowd waiting to greet him and gave him a pat on the shoulder that felt like it was going to dislocate it.

"Good work Pasha! I'm sure you'll get a medal for this!"

Pasha blushed and looked at the floor.

"I did what I could Comrade Colonel."

Bukharin guffawed and walloped him on the shoulder again.

"Modest too! See…this is what a new Soviet worker should be like! Never afraid to work but not wanting to hog the limelight."

"Thank you, sir."

Bukharin lead him through the tent and back to the map table.

"As far as we can make out, the third British division has stopped with the survivors of the first two divisions, here…about twenty miles southwest of us. It is possible they plan to try again."

Pasha stared at the map.

"One division and some survivors against our defences? It would be suicide."

"Indeed Pasha…indeed…I do not like this…it's moments like this when people become desperate…they start grabbing random answers and pushing them forward…we can expect them to attack again…Berlin is too high a value target for them not to…but where and how?"

Pasha pulled out a larger scale map, which took in most of the Western Front, and looked at it for a moment.

"Perhaps they will call on help from their West German allies?"

Bukharin looked at the map and shook his head.

"I doubt it…they're the only thing holding the First Shock Army back from Western Europe at the moment."

"What about the French?"

"The closest unit is three days away. I can't see the British waiting three days."

"Perhaps we should go out and meet them, sir…take our T-54s into the field."

Bukharin shook his head.

"No, no, no…the British would just melt away into the landscape and come around to attack Berlin as our defence was weakened…no, we remain here…lick our wounds and get ready for another assault…Berlin isn't going anywhere…and neither are we."

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The phone calls took over an hour, many orders had to be repeated, code words had to be said and checked multiple times, government ministers had to be briefed and the prime minister informed….all in all, it took nearly a day…but what was time when the Soviets sat waiting in Berlin and the Allies huddled in a group on the outside.

Eventually the final decision was made, and the final code was given.

In the middle of the night, on the outskirts of the sleepy Suffolk village of Tuddenham in the countryside that John Constable himself had sat and painted, a series of alert sirens were sounding as a long, white and cylindrical object was slowly wheeled out from a concrete hangar and lifted up into a ninety degree angle, its pointed nose facing up into the starry night sky.

The final orders were given and at twenty-three, forty seven ZULU, Operation Anvil was completed.


End file.
